Blade (The Alpha Elite #11)

Chapter Fifty-Six

Blade

A n hour and fifteen later, I was at the back table of the coffee joint, a white bakery bag was in front of me, and the pink-haired chick was making it her mission not to look my way.

At one hour and twenty, it was official.

I was pissed.

Powering up my burner, I half expected a dozen new texts.

There were none.

I typed.

Me: You got a problem with punctuality?

A fraction of a second later, a telltale notification sound pinged loudly.

My gaze cut to the barista.

Quickly glancing down, she fumbled with a cell.

I sent another text.

Me: Seriously?

The cell pinged again, and the barista’s cheeks flamed as bright as her hair before she glanced in my direction.

Grabbing the bag, I stood and strode to the front counter.

Wiping the same damn coffee machine she’d been cleaning for the past twenty minutes, the barista didn’t look up. “Can I help you?”

“Where is she?” I demanded.

The wiping stopped, her head rose, and her gaze came up—as far as my fucking chest. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know who you mean.”

Each time I’d been here, this chick had looked every customer in the eye and called them by name. “You want to know your first, second, or third mistake?”

The nervous wiping resumed. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“You can get the woman who owns that phone.”

Her gaze cut to my left shoulder, not the cell. “You mean my phone?”

“You want me to text again or just call you on your bullshit now?”

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what—”

“Fuck this.” Aiming for the back hall, I strode past the counter.

“Sir! You can’t go back there!”

I kicked through the first fucking door past the restrooms and hit paydirt.

Standing in the middle of a stockroom, arms crossed, hair loose, eyes wild, looking scared as fuck and broken as hell, she jerked back. Her purse, the same damn one she’d had two years ago, bumped a stack of napkin supplies, knocked them over, and she stumbled.

I reached for her, and she fucking flinched.

Every damn muscle in my body tactically trained, I froze. But it did nothing to stop the blunt-force impact I took in the chest. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her throat moved with a swallow, her hands shook, then the woman who regularly handed me my ass over texts used the one fucking word that would lay me down like a dog.

“Please,” she rasped. “Leave.”

For two seconds, I stood there.

Then I placed the bag on a desk and walked the fuck out.